


Shadows Taller Than the Soul

by hanyou_elf



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:49:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanyou_elf/pseuds/hanyou_elf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There are two paths you can go by. You’re stairway is built on the whispering wind."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sam just stands there, feeling like his world is crumbling. _No,_ he tells himself. _There's no way. Dean would never do this._

But, there it is, just under the sleeve of his brother's wrinkled shirts, where that leather bracelet used to be until a couple of days ago. He must have forgotten that it was gone, forgotten to hide it for just a second.

'It' being the long, jagged scar across his wrist. It's a vicious one, and it looks surprisingly old- not bright red or purple (Sam doesn't stop to think about how disturbing it is that he knows the stages of wound healing so well), more, faded pink. Almost white now. It's been a while. _It's been a while since Dean took a knife to his wrist. Been a while since he survived it and never said a word._

The thought fills him with abject rage, and rage is so much easier than the horror of thinking about the desperation it would take to try ( _there's no way, Dean would never do this!_ ). The word _when_ rings in his ears, settles in where _why_ was a second ago. He suddenly feels sick.

He takes a deep breath, watches his brother's face closely, wonders about some of the lines that he can't remember.

"Dean," he says. "Dean, why?"

Dean looks up quickly, harshly, unable to hide the shock and fear from his green, green eyes. He refuses to look down at his wrist, even though Sam can see the stress of not moving that it causes him. He refuses to acknowledge that period of life that he'd been so weak, that he'd tried to take his own life, and that even in that, the hunter had failed to claim prey.

He blinks slowly and turns away from Sam completely. His eyes are dark, shadowed. A forbidden knowledge hidden deep enough that nobody would ever uncover it. Until now. Until Sam just happened to see the broken skin scarred beneath his protection bracelet. He'd hidden it away so carefully.

Sam steps forward, leading with an outstretched hand that anyone else would take as comfort. Dean sees nothing in that, only malice. Perhaps, he sees Sam's need to know the truth.

"What happened when I left?"

Because Dean didn't start to wear those bracelets until after he'd gone away to Stanford. And living like they had, close quarters, negative personal space, Sam would've noticed it. He would've seen Dean's struggle with death.

"It... it doesn't matter," Dean answers, his voice thick with some indefinable emotion as he retreats from the offer of comfort. "It was a long time ago. A hunt. a hunt that went bad."

It's a lie. It screams of lie. But here, in the quiet of the hospital room, Sam will let him get away with it. Because Dean needs that to be the truth. Dean _needs_ to believe that he's the undefeatable big brother. So Sam will let him have this, for now. But it won't last. It can't last.

"Alright, Dean," Sam says. And the expression in those broken green eyes is so painful and so frightened that Sam just knows that Dean is aware of the fact that it won't be dropped.

Until then, Sam is content to let Dean have denial.

As much as Sam wants to pretend it's not, they're life is a long line of giving themselves away. It makes things that much more difficult, because as much as Sam wants to, he can't force Dean's hand.

Sam doesn't have the right to say anything to Dean. He can't demand that Dean share that part of himself anymore. It's something that happened while Sam was away. He was gone for nearly four years. He'd abandoned Dean, and in doing so, he'd left Dean completely alone.

Stanford was an incredible experience. It was both painful and eye-opening. He'd been allowed to grow as a person and he'd been allowed to become the person he is today. Unfortunately, because of that, he'd missed out on some very important revelations about his older brother.

Dean's broken. Something had taken his brother, had ruined him, and returned the hollowed out husk to his family. And Sam won't get the details from his brother. Not until Dean's ready. Until then, Sam is going to have to ride out Dean's emotional constipation.

-.-.-

He does what he has to. He plays Dean like an instrument. Dean is a machine, he follows the same ups and downs. It's never changed. He follows the same path their father set down for them so very long ago. When they finally catch up with dad, Sam is determined to let him know just what he thinks of dad's influence.

He makes his own form of amends toward Dean in the mean time. Metallica when they get in the Impala. With Dean's favorite tape always on hand. Zep is never far behind. When they stop, Sam refuses to say anything about his choice of meals or drink. He doesn't say anything against Dean's increase in one night stands.

He knows that Dean is going to lose himself in whatever vice he can find, no matter what Sam ever says.

Dean seems to be almost back to his place of plausible deniability , the point in his life where he can pretend that things are all good. That the world is at it should be.

So it's a surprise when Dean finally addresses the issue. He pulls the Impala into an empty field. Beer seems to magically appear in his hand, two bottles that Sam wasn't even aware of them having in the car. It's the setup for they're normal bout of sharing and caring. Dean won't emote unless he's able to hide away behind a shield of masculinity.

And the Impala is the epitome of maleness. What Dean shares though, is completely out of left field.  



	2. Chapter 2

_Dean was twenty two the first time he took a knife to himself. It wasn't just any knife either, it was the pure silver, consecrated blade that his father had given him when he'd turned sixteen. The blade that said his father had faith in him as a hunter._

 _Dean didn't do anything drastic, didn't do anything romantic like cutting his little brother's name into his arm, but he carved a single protective sigil into his wrist. A small thing. An ancient Egyptian symbol that warded against evils from the underworld. It didn't mean much, it was just a small and bloodied incision that relieved the pressure. That filled a role._

 _He didn't want to die. That wasn't what it was about. He needed a distraction from the seriousness of the frustration of loss. He was lost, without the constant noise and anger and bid for attention that was Sammy. His little brother needed to be normal. He needed to feel valued, and in their nomadic lifestyle, he didn't get it so much._

 _So, Sammy had gone to Stanford. In California. On the West Coast. Away from his brother who was fairly useless and a father he probably more than a little hated._

 _And Dean, well, he'd simply carved a ward against evils into his wrist and prayed to a God he didn't believe in that Sammy stayed safe._

 _-.-.-.-_

 _The last time he took a knife to himself, his father had left him too. He wasn't needed. He was a fifth wheel that just got in the way. His heart hurt; his soul hurt. He felt nothing but abandoned and alone._

 _He didn't want to, but the last time he'd carved a sigil into himself, it had helped. He would do it again. A bigger one, and he'd be okay again. He'd found an ancient Celtic one that looked promising. It would take longer to carve, but he would have permanent protection on a basic level._

 _In the bathroom of a dirty motel, he dug the knife into his skin and dragged it long up his arm. It dug in deep and sliced through skin and blood and muscles in white-hot and blinding pain. It felt so good. He traced the cross post of the symbol, But it didn't go as deep. His hands were shaking._

 _There was too much blood._

 _Hs head fell back against the wall, and he dropped the knife to the bathroom floor. He hadn't bled this much last time. The pain didn't bother him. He wasn't afraid of the blood. He wasn't a stereotype. He wasn't a bitch. But he couldn't stop the sudden wave of nausea and instability that ran through him. He shivered as he turned the water. Tepid water raced over the jagged cut, washing pink blood down the drain. He closed his eyes and knew he had to do something._

 _He grabbed the hand towel the motel had generously provided and wrapped his wrist tight. Satisfied with the make-shift bandage, he left the bathroom and prostrated himself on the single queen in the room. It felt so large, the room so empty. Devoid of another life, lacking in human tenderness. In care._

 _Dean wanted to cry. He wouldn't though. Crying was something that only bitches did._

 _He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Let himself relax._

 _When he opened them again, the sun shone through the windows powerful and bright. Demanding in it's insistence. Dean shivered as he attempted to roll over onto his side, failing spectacularly- blood loss. He curled his body in on itself and brought the arm he'd cut up to his chest. He could barely breath. He couldn't think, when he hurt so much. It felt like being betrayed, but nobody had done anything for, or against him._

 _Anything that was happening, it was all on Dean._

 _He lifted his hands to his face, pressed them tight to his face. He couldn't think. It hurt. To remember that he had once been distracted by the fact that Sammy was right there, that Sammy had once been driven to the point of amusement by the fact that Dean was so easily aggravated by his silly antics. Or his father._ Their _father. The man who had once taken time simply because he wanted it, and he could._

 _Because he couldn't call Sammy, Sammy was in school. Probably in class, probably doing something fancy. And he couldn't call his father, because dad had nothing he wanted to do with Dean right now. He'd made that abundantly clear when he'd left._

 _Making a single decision, the last one he would make on his own for the next six months or so, he pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket. He was in North Dakota. Wasn't far from Bobby. From a man he trusted, a man he loved as much as his own father. Dialing with fingers that shook, that were clumsy and useless, he listened to the dull ringing of the phone._

 _"Singer Salvage," he answered simply. His voice was gruff, one too many nights with ol' Johnny._

 _"Bobby." Dean's hands were slippery with sweat, he could barely hold onto the phone, but he did. "Can you come get me?"_

 _"What're you on about?" Bobby asked, his voice rough and confused. Tough._

 _"It's Dean," he answered instead. "I'm in North Dakota. But, I don't... I can't... can you come get me?"_

 _"Where you at, boy?" Bobby asked. Dean knew the third degree would come in the truck on the way to Sioux Falls._

 _All Dean could do was answer simply, hotel, highway and city. Precise, to the point, and concise. As he'd been taught to do by his father long years ago. "Jamestown, North Dakota. Quality Inn, offa 94."_

 _"Alright, idjit. I'll be there in a couple'a hours."_

 _Dean didn't answer. He closed his phone and finally managed the monumental task of righting himself. Sitting up didn't help how he was feeling though, so he laid back down, determined to wait for Bobby conscious._


	3. Chapter 3

  
"When Bobby convinced the motel manager to open the door, I was unconscious. Blood loss. And depression, I guess. Didn't want to get out of the bed and make myself anything to eat, and I could barely sleep, so my body was giving into my demands. He took me home. I hid out there for six months. Rumsfield." He shrugs, like the fact that he had felt so damned abandoned and unwanted by his family that he'd tried to compensate by carving sigils into his wrist doesn't mean anything. That he'd scared himself badly enough to go into strategic retreat at Singer Salvage was of no importance.

"Why... I don't understand, Dean," Sam says softly. Because he doesn't. He can't understand the desperation that a man has to harbor to be capable of something so final. So, _complete._

"There's nothing to understand, Sammy," Dean answers softly. "Nothing at all. Shit happened. Other shit happened. Consequences. Repercussions. All that shit that everyone talks about. Doesn't matter anymore. It was a long time ago, and I'm done with it."

"What happens if I quit?"

"I'll keep on hunting without you," Dean answers. It's soft and matter-of-fact. "I hunted alone. I can do it again."

"What about Rumsfield?" Sam finally asks after the silence continues on for far too long. That damnably lovable dog that Bobby had picked up from somewhere, even though it was terrible at actually guarding things. Rumsfield was a giant puppy who behaved starved for attention.

"Rumsfield is mine," Dean's voice is soft and childish. He doesn't want to admit to it, because he knows that he's failing in the facade of impenetrable stone wall. "Bobby got him for me. So, I could have a friend or some girly shit like that."

At least, that explained the companionship the dog and his brother had found together.

"Let's go to Bobby's. I have some questions for him," Sam suggests.

"He won't tell you shit about what happened."

"I don't want to ask him about it," Sam protests. He does. He _really_ wants to know Bobby's side of the story, because he was the only person that Dean had felt safe enough to call. He wants to know what Bobby did to earn that kind of blind faith and trust from his stubborn brother. "I want to ask him about some lore on angels."

Dean gives him a look of complete disbelief but he nods slowly anyway. He's been distracted by the divine war that's happening around them, the puppeteer that's attempting to happen around them. And even though he wants to wash his hands of it all, he won't forget his job. And Sam, regardless of his motives, has to play on Dean's sensibilities. His weaknesses.

Dean turns his head up to the stars scattered above them. Castiel is up there, somewhere. He's fighting a war he doesn't understand, to save humans, he doesn't trust. He's fighting for a man who doesn't have faith in himself- except for the bloody qualities.

"Hey Sam, when I die, do you think I'm going back there?" Dean asks, effectively changing the subject. "I think I am." He shrugs, nonchalant. As though the very idea of the Hellhounds doesn't scare the shit out of him.

Sam kind of hates himself. Dean fell too far. He doesn't know how to handle the fact that people love him, that people _need_ him. He finds himself insignificant. And the pain that he could only relieve through blood and self-mutilation.

Even though he's got a an angel on his shoulder, Dean still can't see the value in himself. And he's going to doubt and question until the end. It hurts, that Dean would have so little faith in himself when he should be full of confidence and glory.

Before Sam can answer though, Dean puts on his best shit-eating grin and throws himself off of the hood of the Impala. The bottle he's been holding desperately is flung into the dark and he slides, all animal and predatory grace, into the driver's side. "Come on, Samantha!" he shouts.

His voice has left behind the deep, thoughtfulness it had carried as they talked softly, and grown into that cocky voice. The one that he carries into bars and schools and homes and talks others into giving him what he wants. Confidence and strength and a kind of sensuality that others could only wish to possess.

This trip has been revelatory. Sam has never thought of Dean as being mortal, as vulnerable. He's seen Dean at some of his lowest points, but he'd never let it point to Dean as a regular old guy. It had always just added to the mystique of Dean.

Sam is beginning to realize just how human Dean is. His brother, his once immovable force of nature, his hero- gone. Instead, an altogether too human Dean. A Dean who's had to struggled and fucked up way too seriously to maintain the superman persona. And even though Sam hurts for his brother, even though he wants to erase the knowledge that Dean is fallible, he finds that he loves Dean all the more for his admission. For being weak when he needed to be, but strong enough to find a route back. Even as unconventional a method as Bobby Singer (and Dean's beloved Rumsfield) provide.

"Let's go, bitch," Dean orders, knocking on the windshield. "I'll drive off whether you're in the car or not!"

Sam laughs. A big, booming laugh that resonates through the empty field. He unfolds his tall frame and slides off of the Impala. With none of the grace that he normally possesses, he shuffles into the passenger side and leans back.

Driver picks the music and Dean is not going to let the moment of emotional sharing and caring pass without throwing out some cock rock. Dean grins like it's going out of style and turns the music up as loud as he can, respectful of the Impala's occasionally fritzy speakers and relaxes into his seat. The guitar riff that blares through the small place is familiar and comforting. Dean's bridge music, what gets him from his place of vulnerability to the guarded wall that everyone else sees.

It's Zep, of course.

Perhaps ironically, "Stairway to Heaven."


End file.
